


The Split

by Angelicasdean



Series: Powerverse AU [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different Powers, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Tragedy, Arthur Whump, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt No Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Open to Interpretation, Spells & Enchantments, Whump, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22477060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelicasdean/pseuds/Angelicasdean
Summary: It’s always been told, a warning for all, you don’t ever use your powers while in chains. You can never try.Or else you’ll split.
Series: Powerverse AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617190
Comments: 19
Kudos: 73





	The Split

It’s always been told, a warning for all, you don’t ever use your powers while in chains. You can never try.

  
Or else _you’ll split._

  
The problem is, it feels too much like a childhood story, a way to teach kids that, a) _they should never be criminals, to avoid the chains_ , and B) t _o control their powers_. Arthur has been in chains most his life, and though he never truly believed it, he never tried to get himself out. He waits for someone to break the spell, waits till the caster is dead. Waits.  
Never pulls himself out. Because he’s too afraid of the split.

  
No one even knows what it means, split? Split how? No one has the answers.

Everyone has theories. From getting cut up, by the spell binding you, losing half yourself. Even getting thrown into the third realm.  
No solid idea.

  
Because no one survives the split.  
And Arthur never had the courage or enough curiosity to try and see what happens. 

  
Until _now_. 

  
The Pinkertons have them all lined up, on their knees, chains heavy behind them. He should’ve known something was wrong as soon as he felt the drop in his chest, the same feeling he gets when he’s in an enchanted area. But it was _camp_ , spells and brews were happening everywhere. From the girls using spells to help them with their chores, Strauss and Hosea making medical potions, or even just one of the boys too lazy to get up and grab a beer, casting a spell to get it. 

  
But it _felt wrong_. Yet, he still didn’t even speak. He was too busy ringing up his own spells, patching himself up and planning a schedule to bring in a bit of money for the camp. 

  
Well, look where he ended up, how _everyone_ ended up in chains. Even little Jack wasn’t spared, though he was treated kinder than the rest. He hadn’t passed his trials yet, he didn’t have any power yet, couldn’t even cast a simple spell because of his lisp; granted by his missing teeth. He was only restrained by a few officers, and a measly rope had been tied around his wrists. It looked loose, thank God, but it still set a simmering anger in Arthur’s chest. 

  
And by the glances being bounced around, everyone shares the sentiment. 

  
He hoped someone had a plan in mind, because apparently the Pinkertons didn’t plan on getting them alive. The barrel of a shotgun caressing the back of his skull is enough of a pointer. Everyone but Dutch and Hosea had guns to their heads, and Milton seemed to be mighty proud of himself. 

  
He wished he had spoken up, wished he checked on the concealment charm they had set up, wished he took a round around camp, making sure their hexes were still up.   
But he was just…. Tired. And careless. No amount of self scolding will make the guilt drain out of his chest, though. 

  
Arthur remained silent, up until the gun clocked beside him, and he heard Jack cry out. Pushed to the ground, Jack wiggles before one of the Pinkertons hold him down.   
He hadn’t been paying attention to what Dutch was saying, but he knows it must’ve been the wrong thing. A gun to Jack’s head was something he thought he’d never see, hoped he’d never see. 

  
Hoped the kid would never have a reason to get held like that in the first place. 

  
The outcry was deafening around him, and it seemed to fuel the Pinkertons, a moment later, a chorus of cries of pain fill the air. Bill, hit on the head and forced to the ground, Sean after, and Javier, then Charles. Down the line, butt of a rifle against the backs of their head. Arthur waits for his hit, cringing when Hosea gets hit, and Dutch after. 

  
The barrel that had been carding through his hair disappears, and he closes his eyes waiting for the pain to hit. 

  
“Hold on,” Milton says, Arthur peels one eye open, blinking on confusion as Milton comes closer, “Arthur Morgan, right?”

  
A glare, Milton goes on. 

  
“You killed a lot of my men,” Arthur blinks, eyebrows furrowing, he hadn’t gotten many brushes with the Pinkertons, Blackwater, and once back near Oregon. Hell, he’d say Bill or Sean killed more Pinkertons than him. 

  
He doesn’t speak, feels the metal against his head again, pushing him forward. 

  
“I’ve seen you in fights Morgan, you’re a great gun to have around, and that power of yours...” Eyes meeting, Arthur rolls his, “I have an offer for you,”

  
He can almost feel the tension chose the air out of the forest. Dutch’s eyes are burning the side of his face. When he goes to meet his eyes, Milton grabs his chin harshly. 

  
“You take it, you live, you don’t, you die. You and all your friends here” he jerks his head towards the rest of the men and women tied up, out of the corner of his eyes he can see Uncle whispering to a hysterics looking Mary-Beth, crying silently and rocking on her knees. 

  
“And what a shame that will be,” Milton says, “the boy will watch you die, all of you, then head to an orphanage,”

  
“you son of a-“ thunk John groans, and Arthur purses his lip, anger burning his cheeks as Milton forces him to look him in the eye. 

  
“Run with us, help us catch the rest of the gangs, rid the world of their scum. You won’t face any repercussions for your past, it’d be a real shame losing a power like yours for the likes of them,” word spit out, Arthur can feel his anger boil, fingers curling behind his back, chain tightening in warning. 

  
“You can save the boy, too, and the women, we don’t need to spill too much blood. They’re invaluable,” Milton offers, “Just work with us,”

  
“so? What do you say, Morgan?” Arthur squints at Milton, a small treacherous part of him thinks it’s actually a pretty good deal. Instead of all of them dying, and Jack getting orphaned… at least the women will get out, and Jack will at least have a mother.   
But he’d be a traitor, valuing his life over the other men. All the Pinkertons want are his skills, his powers. Once he dissatisfies, they’ll get rid of him. 

  
Maybe Arthur wishes he was just a bit brave, and a bit selfish. Enough to accept the offer, but… he’s not. He can’t live with the idea that the gang’s blood is on his hands. 

  
“Sorry,” Arthur replies, and while it’s directed as a refusal to Milton’s offer, his eyes meet with Jack, and he truly means it. As an apology for being too weak, too loyal.   
Even facing certain death. 

  
He doesn’t notice that Milton stepped away until he feels the wooden butt or the shotgun slam against his neck, something cracking under the hit as his nose collides with the forest floor. His eyes remain closed for a moment, two, three, until the pain that had burned his spine subsides. 

  
It still feels like a knife to his vertebrae, and he can’t really move his neck from the pain. Thoughtlessly, he almost let’s himself heal, feeling the beginning of the numbness that comes with self medication at the tips of his fingers. 

  
He’s reminded grimly of why he hasn’t torn Milton to shreds already when a blinding pain burns his fingers. His eyes snap open, back tensing as the chains tighten, almost impossibly, against his wrists. 

  
Hosea is staring at him with worry, pale eyes darting between his face and his wrists. Arthur closes his eyes again, listening to Milton giving another lecture. 

  
“Kill them, leave Dutch and Matthews alive,” Milton orders, and Arthur feels himself get pulled back, by both collar and elbow, forced to struggle walking. Face feeling like too much blood is flowing, Arthur struggles to catch up. 

  
Once there, facing Dutch and Hosea, who both look grim and panicked, Arthur feels hopelessness filling his chest. Replacing the guilt and the anger. 

  
He had hoped Dutch came up with something, or maybe he would break out of his chains, fire off a few spells and get the out. 

  
No dice. 

  
The guns clicking behind them, signaling the approach of their doom, Arthur doesn’t even think when he closes his eyes. 

  
He knows about The Split, knows about the fear buried into the skulls of every person’s mind. But… 

  
If he dies… then he dies… 

  
But the _gang_ _will_ _live_. 

  
It hurts when the chain breaks with a shrill crack and crash, disappearing in a bright flash of light. There’s a secondary thump behind his heart, like a second heart racing beside his. It’s uncomfortable and it hurts. But Arthur takes the chance to fire off a spell blindly, standing up, wobbly. 

  
There’s pain underneath his skin, and it feels absolutely horrible when he forces himself to travel back, feeling the familiar low fire of every cell breaking as he gets rejoined behind Milton. His gun is too heavy in his hand as he pulls the trigger, and Milton falls.   
His feet ebb in pain as he travels again, appearing behind Dutch. He’s the strongest between them, even if Arthur dies. Splits. Whatever will happen, _is_ happening. Dutch will be able to take over and get the rest. 

  
For a moment, his hand is just a smattering of colors, little dots that represent his skin, bone and muscle. But as soon as he focuses, the dots rejoice and he can break the chain around Dutch’s wrist. 

  
Almost instantly, Dutch is firing his own spells as he stands. Fingertips alight as he hurls the nearest objects at the Pinkertons. Since he has time, and not much energy to fight. Arthur stumbles towards Hosea, breaking the chain, then Bill, and Sean. 

  
Each one hurts him more than the last. And each one, his hand returns to the dots before forming a vague shape of a hand. By the scared glance Lenny gives him as stands, it’s not only his hand. 

  
The pain is not localized anywhere, there’s no feathering source. It feels like his very souls is dying inside him, and his body is withering with it. Broken, breaking. 

  
_Splitting_. 

  
His lungs seize inside his chest, eyes watering when he couldn’t do anything but fall to the ground. For a second he swears he almost fell through the ground.

  
He’s choking somehow, fingers twitching, or what’s supposed to be his fingers twitching. His heart feels like it’s too large in his chest, and he could see a few faces around him, all a safe distance away, too afraid to touch him. 

  
He doesn’t blame them. 

  
Hand raised to his face, just so he can assess the damage, Arthur feels the nonexistent breath in his breaking lungs get sucked. 

  
The name is accurate enough. His hand drops, and he focuses on trying to heal himself. Maybe it’s not too late. 

  
What’s left of him twitches, pain doubling when he tried to move. It’s spreading, somehow, or maybe he is spreading. Parts of him that he never knew existed where on fire, ripping apart, and he can’t find his voice to scream, he just rolls onto his stomach.   
Arthur hoped his death would be quicker, this isn’t like anything he’s hurt before. He guesses if it was quick and merciful its reputation wouldn’t have been as bad as it is. 

  
His vision blurs, then slowly, the colors dissect, and finally, he’s completely blind.

  
His breathing stops, but the pain doesn’t. 

  
He hopes he dies. 

  
He _doesn’t_. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and critiques are appricated :3


End file.
